The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 3

By R. H. Newell

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• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547354307

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R. H. Newell

The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers, Series 3

EAN 8596547354307

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

LETTER LXXXI.

LETTER LXXXII.

LETTER LXXXIII.

LETTER LXXXIV.

LETTER LXXXV.

LETTER LXXXVI.

LETTER LXXXVII.

LETTER LXXXVIII.

LETTER LXXXIX.

LETTER XC.

LETTER XCI.

LETTER XCII.

LETTER XCIII.

LETTER XCIV.

LETTER XCV.

LETTER XCVI.

LETTER XCVII.

LETTER XCVIII.

LETTER XCIX.

LETTER C.

LETTER CI.

LETTER CII.

LETTER CIII.

LETTER CIV.

LETTER CV.

LETTER CVI.

LETTER CVII.

LETTER CVIII.

LETTER CIX.

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THE

ORPHEUS C. KERR PAPERS.

THIRD SERIES.

---

LETTER LXXX.

REPORTING OUR UNCLE ABE'S LATEST LITTLE TALE; OUR CORRESPONDENT'S HISTORICAL CHAUNT; THE BOSTON NOVEL OF MR. SMITH; AND A FUNERAL DISCOURSE BY THE DEVOUT CHAPLAIN OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.

Washington

, D.C., Jan. 4th, 1863.

The more I see of our Honest Abe, my boy—the more closely I analyze the occasional acts by which he individualizes himself as a unit distinct from the decimals of his cabinet—the deeper grows my faith in his sterling wisdom. Standing a head and shoulders above the other men in power, he is the object at which the capricious lightnings of the storm first strike; and were he a man of wax, instead of the grand old rock he is, there would be nothing left of him but a shapeless and inert mass of pliable material by this time. There are deep traces of the storm upon his countenance, my boy; but they are the sculpture of the tempest on a natural block of granite, graduating the features of young simplicity into the sterner lineaments of the mature sublime, and shaping one of those strong and earnest faces which God sets, as indelible seals, upon the ages marked for immortality. Abused and misrepresented by his political foes, alternately cajoled and reproached by his other foes—his political friends—he still pursues the honest tenor of the obvious Right, and smiles at calumny. His good-nature, my boy, is a lamp that never goes out, but burns, with a steady light, in the temples of his mortality through all the dark hours of his time:

"As some tall cliff that rears its awful form,

Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm;

Though round its base the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head."

They tell a story about the Honest Abe which this good pen of mine cannot refrain from writing. A high moral, political chap from the Sixth Ward, having learned that there was a pleasing clerical vacancy in the Treasury Department, sought a hasty interview with the Honest Abe, and says he:

I am a member of our excellent National Democratic Organization, which is at this moment eligible for office, on the score of far more true loyalty to the Union of our forefathers than can be found in any other organization of the present distracting period. I will admit, says the genial chap, in a fine burst of honesty, that our Organization has done much for the sake of the South in times past; I will admit that we have seemingly sided with the sunny South for the sake of our party. I will admit, says this candid chap, with a slight cough, "that our excellent Democratic Organization has at times seemed to sympathize with our wayward sisters for the sake of itself asan Organization. But now, says the impressive chap majestically, having heard the recent news from Sumter, the excellent Organization of which I am a part, stands ready to sacrifice everything for the sake of the Union, and demands that it shall be admitted to all the privileges of undisguised loyalty."

Here the excited chap blushed ingenuously, and says he:

Any offices which you might have to dispose of would be acceptable to the Organization of which I am a prominent part.

The Honest Abe was wiping the blade of his jack-knife with his thumb at the time, and says he:

What you say about the present willingness of the Organization to sacrifice everything for the sake of the Union, neighbor, reminds me of a small tale. When I was beating the prairies for clients in Illinois, says the Honest Abe, smiling at the back of the hand in which he held the jack-knife—when I was stalking for clients, I knew an old 'un named Job Podger, who lived at Peoria.

Here the honest Abe leaned away over the arm of his chair toward the attentive political chap, and says he—

Podger didn't know as much as would fill a four-inch spelling-book; but he had enough money to make education quite dispensable, and his wife knew enough for all the rest of the family. This wife was a very good woman in her way, says the Honest Abe, kindly—she was a very good woman in her way, and made my friend Podger so happy at home that he never dared to go away from home without her permission. Her temper, says the Honest Abe, putting one of his feet upon the sill of the nearest window—her temper was of the useful nature to keep my friend Podger and the children sufficiently warm all the year round, and I don't think she ever called Job Podger an Old Fool except when company was present. If she had one peculiarity more than another, it was this: she was always doing something for Podger's sake.

Here the political chap was seized with a severe cough; but the Honest Abe only smiled pleasantly at his jack-knife, and went on:

She was always doing something for Podger's sake. Did she buy a new dress, it was for Podger's sake; did she have a tea-party and a quilting-bee, it was solely for the sake of Podger; did she refuse to contribute for the fund of the heathen, it was solely on account of Mr. Podger. But her strong point in this matter, says the Honest Abe, leaning back in his chair against the wall, and scraping the sole of his left boot with his knife, "her strong point was, that she endured a great deal of suffering for Podger's sake. Did she sprain her ankle on the cellar-stairs, she would say: 'Just see what I suffer for yoursake, Podger;' did she have a sick headache from drinking too much Young Hyson, she would tie up her face in camphor, and say: 'Only see, Podger, how much I bear for yoursake;' did she catch cold from standing too long before a dry-goods shop window, she would go and sit in a dark room with a flannel stocking round her neck, murmuring: 'I was a goose ever to marry such a fool of a man as you be—but I am willing to suffer even this for yoursake.' In fact, says the Honest Abe, commencing to cut his nails—in truth, that woman was always suffering for Podger's sake, and Podger felt himself to be a guilty man.

"One day, I remember, my friend Podger and his wife were going to Chicago to buy a new set of furs for Podger's sake, and just as Podger got comfortably nested in his seat in the car, the suffering woman ate a lozenge, and says she: 'I shan't be fit to live, Podger, if you don't go out to the baggage car again, and make certain sure that they'll get all our baggage.'

Now Podger had been out six times before to see about the same thing, says the Honest Abe, earnestly; "he'd been out six times before, and began to feel wrathy. 'Ourbaggage!' says he, '

our

baggage! Mrs. Podger.' Here my friend Podger grew very red in the face, and says he: 'I rather like that, you know—OUR baggage!—two brass-bound trunks and covers, belonging to Mrs. Podger; three carpet-bags and one reticule with steel lock, the property of Mrs. P.; two bandboxes and a green silk umbrella, belonging to Mary Jane Podger; three shawls tied up in a newspaper, and two baskets, owned by Mrs. M. J. Podger; one clean collar and a razor, carried by Job Podger. OUR baggage!'

Here my friend Podger attempted to laugh sardonically behind his collar, and came near going straight into apoplexy. Would you believe it, says the Honest Abe, poking the political chap in the ribs with his jack-knife, would you believe it? Mrs. Podger burst at once into bitter tears, and says she: 'Oh, o-h! a-hoo-hoo-hoo! to think I should have to suffer in this way for my husband's sake!' It wasn't long after that, says the Honest Abe, lowering his tone, "it wasn't very long after that, when Mrs. P. took a violent cold on her lungs, from standing too long on the damp ground at a camp-meeting for Podger's sake, and was soon a very sick woman.

What particularly frightened my friend Podger was, that she didn't say that this was for his sake for two whole days, and in his horror of mind he went and brought a clergyman to see her. This clergyman, says the Honest Abe, with reverence of manner, this clergyman was not one of those sombre, forlorn pastors, who would make you think that it is a grievous thing to be a priest unto your benignant Creator; he rather indicated by his ever-cheerful manner that the only perpetual happiness is to be found in a life of pious ministrations. When he followed my friend Podger to the bedside, he smiled encouragingly at the sick Mrs. P., and rubbed his hands, and says he: 'How do we find ourselves now, my dear madam? Are we about to die this pleasant morning?' She answered him feebly, says the Honest Abe, feelingly, "she answered him feebly, for she was very weak. She said that she feared she had not spent her life as she should, but trusted that the prayers she had breathed during her hours of pain would not be unanswered. 'Ah!' said she, 'I feel that I could suffer still more than I have suffered, for my Intercessor's sake!'

The moment she uttered these last words, says the Honest Abe, "the moment she uttered these words, my friend Podger, who had been standing near the door, the very picture of misery, suddenly gave a start, brightened up with a look of intense joy, beckoned the clergyman to follow him into the kitchen, and fairly danced down stairs. In fact, the good minister found him dancing about the kitchen like one possessed, and says he:

"'Mr. Podger! Job Podger! I am shocked. What can you mean by such conduct?'

"My friend Podger caught him around the neck, and says he:

"'She's going to get well—she's going to get well! I knew she wouldn't go and leave her poor old silly Job in that way. Oh, an't I a happy old fool, though!'

"The clergyman stepped back in alarm, and says he:

"'Are you mad, sir? How do you know your wife will get well?'

"Poor Podger looked upon the parson with a face that fairly beamed, and says he: 'How do I knowit? Why, didn't you hear her yourself? She's commenced to call me names!'"

Here the Honest Abe smiled abstractedly out of the window, and says he:

She did get well, too, and lived to suffer often again for Podger's sake: You see, says the Honest Abe, turning suddenly upon the political chap, as though he had not seen him before—you see, Mrs. Podger had been so much in the habit of suffering everything for my friend Podger's sake, that when she spoke of suffering even for the noblest cause, he naturally thought she was only calling names. And that's the way, says the Honest Abe, cheerfully, that's the way with your Democratic Organization. It has been so long in the habit of sacrificing everything for the sake of the sunny South and Party, that when it talks of sacrificing both for the sake of the holy cause of Union, it seems to me as though it is only calling names!

Immediately upon the termination of this wholesome domestic tale, the political chap sprang from his seat, smiled feebly at the ceiling for a minute, crammed his hat down over his eyes, and fled greatly demoralized.

The New Year, my boy, dawns blithely upon our distracted country as accurately predicted by the Tribune Almanac; and having given much deep thought to the matter, I am impressed with the conviction that the first of January is indeed the commencement of the year. There is something solemn in the idea; it is the period when our tailors send in their little bills, and when fresh thoughts of the negro race steal upon our minds. How many New Years have arrived only to find the unoffending American, of African descent, a hopeless bondman, toiling in hopeless servitude, and wearing coarse underclothing! Occasionally, my boy, he would wear a large seal ring, but it was always brass; and now and then he would exhibit a large breastpin, but it was always galvanized. When I see my fellow-men here wearing much jewelry, I think of the unoffending negro, and say to myself, from the same shop, by all that's bogus!

'Twas on New-Year's Eve that I took prominent part in a great literary entertainment at the tent of Captain Villiam Brown, near the shore of Duck Lake; and responded to universal mackerel desire by sweetly singing an historical Southern

ROMAUNT.

I.

'Tis of a rich planter in Dixie I tell,

Who had for his daughter a pretty dam-sel;

Her name it was Linda De Pendleton Coates,

And large was her fortune in treasury notes.

Chorus.

—Concisely setting forth the exact value of those happy treasury notes:

The treasury note of the Dixian knight

Possesses a value that ne'er comes to light—

Except when the holder, too literal far,

May bring it to light as he lights his segar.

II.

Miss Linda's boudoir was a sight to behold:

A Northern man's breast-bone a shelf did uphold;

Of dried Yankee ribs all her boxes were full;

Her powder she kept in a Fire Zouave's skull.

Chorus.

—Beautifully explaining Southern taste for Northern bones, and proving that an author's bones are sacred in the sight of Southern damsels:

Your soft Southern maidens (like nations at large,

Who take the dear bones of their authors in charge)

Are so literary, they'd far rather scan

A Norther's dead bones than the best living man.

III.

She played the piano; embroidered also,

And worked worsted poodles and trees in a row;

Made knitting-work slippers that no one could wear,

And plastered pomatum all over her hair.

Chorus.

—Satisfactorily revealing to the curious fair sex why she used pomatum when Bandoline was in fashion:

Though Bandoline surely excels all pomade,

The Southern supply couldn't run the blockade;

At first it didbring an exorbitant sum,

And then contrabandoline straight did become.

IV.

As Linda was practising Norma, one day,

Her father came in in his usual way;

And having first spat on the carpeted floor,

Went on to address her as never before:

Chorus.

—Showing conclusively why this tender parent had never done so before:

On Southern plantations when money is flush

Paternal affection comes out with a gush:

But when, as in the war times, the cash is non est,

The Father is lost in the planter distressed.

V.

My daughter, my Linda, he tenderly said,

"Your mother for several years has been dead;

But not until now could I muster the strength

To tell you what all must have found out at length."

Chorus.

—Casually demonstrating how it must really have been found out at length:

The Dixian feminines, true to their sex,

To each other's precedents pay their respects;

And if there's a secret in any girl's life,

They're bound to disclose it before she's a wife.

VI.

"That you are my child, it were vain to deny;

But who was your mother? There, darling, don't cry.

The truth must be told, though it harrows me sore,

Your ma was an Octoroon slave—nothing more."

Chorus.

—Analytical of morals in the sunny South, and touchingly illustrative of the Institution affected by the Emancipation Proclamation:

Your slave is your property, therefore 'tis clear

The child of your slave is your chattel fore'er;

Though you the child's father may happen to be,

That child is a slave—otherwise, prop-er-ty.

VII.

"I've bred you, my darling, as ladies are bred,

You've got more outside than inside of your head;

But now, that your pa can no longer afford

A daughter to keep, you must go by the board."

Chorus.

—Concerning the manner of going by the board generally adopted in the land of Chivalry:

The planter on finding his funds getting low,

Right straight to an auctioneer's shambles doth go;

And Find me a ready-cash buyer, says he,

To take his own pick out of my fam-i-ly.

VIII.

Miss Linda sprang up with a look of dismay:

You surely don't mean, dear papa, what you say?

Then spake the stern parent, nowise looking blue,

But smiling, in fact: Well, I reckon I do.

Chorus.

—Calculated to account for the complacency of the tender parent on this trying occasion:

Now what, after all, is a sale to the chit?

Some gallant may buy her and love her a bit;

One half of the women in marriages sought

Are simply and plainly and formally bought.

IX.

Dear father, said Linda, "step out for a while,

I'll think the thing over, and merit your smile;

For if what I'd bring would relieve you the least,

I'll bring it myself, though I'm sold like a beast."

Chorus.

—Tending to deprecate any imputation on the maiden's refinement that might follow her use of that last expression:

The culture of woman, as known in the South,

Tends greatly to widen and quicken the mouth;

And if a fair Southerner's language is coarse,

'Tis because nothing finer her style would endorse.

X.

The parent went out, and he stayed for an hour,

Having taken some punch and a Hennessey—sour;

And when he came back, 'twas his daughter he found

Slain by her own scissors, and dead on the ground.

Chorus.

—Suggesting facts to the coroner's jury, and clearing up all mystery as to the lamentable suicide:

Since scissors for ripping out stitches are made,

A girl in extremity finds them an aid;

She's only to open them fairly and wide,

And give them a cut at the stitch in her side.

XI.

Beside the dead body a billet displayed,

Said, "See, dearest father, the mischief you've made;

I couldn't survive to be sold; for you know,

I'd far rather die than a sell-ibate go."

Chorus.

—Commenting genially on the idiosyncrasy of female character evidenced in this revelation:

All over the world it is plain to espy

That woman a husband has e'er in her eye;

And if no fine fellow her husband can be,

She'll even take up with a felo de se!

XII.

The neighbors came in. What a pity! said they,

To lose such a daughter, and in such a way.

My daughter be hanged! said the parent sublime—

"It's one thousand dollars I'm euchred this time!"

Chorus.

—Deducing a beautiful and useful moral from this burst of paternal agony:

My dear fellow-citizens, lay it to heart:

Who'd sell a young woman must work it up smart:

Or else, like the planter, whose story I've told,

He'll only go selling to find himself sold.

When I had finished singing, Captain Samyule Sa-mith exhibited a small manuscript, and says he:

"The noise having ceased, I will proceed to read a small moral tale, written by a young woman which lives in Boston, and is destined to become an eddycator of mankind. The fiction is called

"MR. SMITH.¹

"The first of April. You know the day. A point of time, an unit of twenty-four hours, with a night on each side of it, and the sun laid on top to keep it in its place. You have undoubtedly passed the day in New England at some period of your miserable life. You have felt your coarse nature repulsed, too, when some weary and desolate little child has dreamily pinned a bit of paper to the hinder-most verge of the garment men call a coat, and then called the attention of passers-by to your appearance. You have despised that little, weary, hollow-eyed child for it. Beware how you strike that child; for I tell you that the child is the germ of the thing they call man. The germ will develop; it will grow broadly and largely into the full entity of Manhood. In striking the present Child you strike the future Man. Ponder this thought well. Let it fester in your bosom.

"John Smith sat at his table, in the lowest depths of a dreamy coal-mine, and helped himself to some more pork and beans. I know not what there was way down in the black recesses of the man's hidden soul to make him want so much pork and beans. I look into my heart to find an answer to the question, but no answer comes. Providence does not reveal all things to us. Is it not well it should be so?

"He was a hard, iron-looking, adamantine man. His eyes were glowing furnaces for the crucibles of thought. You felt that he saw you when he looked at you. His nose was like a red gothic tower built amidst broken angles of sullied snow, and his mouth was the cellar of that tower. His hair was of the sort that resists a comb. You have seen the same sort on the heads of men of great thought. It is the tangled bush in which the goat of Thought loses itself.

"John Smith hiccupped, as he helped himself to some more pork and beans. He did not notice that the foot which he had semi-consciously